Gathering Darkness
by Hikako
Summary: The Horde has disbanded and the Alliance has faltered. The time has come for mortals to choose whether or not Chaos and Death will hold sway over their fates or to stand and fight for their right to existence.
1. Chapter 1

The Horde has disbanded: the death of Cairne Bloodhoof, Chieftain of the Bloodhoof Tauren, by the hands of Forsaken assassins has caused a rift in the Horde. While the Orcs and Trolls tried to mediate between the two sides the Tauren and Forsaken bayed for the other's blood. Tearing the Horde apart the Tauren retreated to Mulgore while the Forsaken pulled back to Lordaeron, each preparing their warriors for battle. Like the Horde, the Blood Elves are torn, between loyalty to their fallen sister Sylvanas and the noble Naa'ru that call them to a greater destiny. The final blow came when the Trolls migrated en masse to retake the Echo Isles. Warchief Thrall desperately seeks to reform the Horde, if he fails the fate of Durotar, perhaps Kalimdor itself, is bleak.

The Alliance is broken: after attempting to remove Jaina Proudmoore as ruler of Theramore Isle, King Varian Wrynn has shattered the fragile Alliance. King Magni Bronzebeard and the Senate furious at the arrogance of the human king have withdrawn the dwarven armies to Ironforge and Loch Modan. The return of Malfurion Stormrage has caused civil war in the Night Elven Empire, with the Sentinels, Stormrage, and Tyrande Whisperwind returning to the ancient capital in Nighthaven and the remaining forces of the Cenarion Circle under Fandral Staghelm's command in Darnassus. Sensing the needless conflict and bloodshed coming, the Draenei have pulled back to the Exodar.

Meanwhile, the enemies of mortals prepare themselves for war…


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I don't own Warcraft. Also if any of you were confused by the timeline, in my mind I envision the Alliance fracturing before the Horde, but it taking months to fully fly apart unlike the Horde.

Gathering Darkness

By Hikako

A shadow hung over Mulgore, like a dark storm cloud in the minds of all tauren. Thunder Bluff, once a peaceful and harmonious center of the tauren life had become grim and foreboding. Any traveler on foot would not find the graceful slopes of the Golden Plains at the foot of the Tauren city, but a stark graveyard for hundreds.

After the great armies departed for Northrend, Magatha Grimtotem had made her move. With support from the Forsaken the Grimtotems gathered and marched to take the city and claim the position of High Crone for Magatha. The Bloodhoof and other tribes were taken completely unaware as the siege began, but Cairne Bloodhoof rallied his warriors and they held their ground.

Like a roaring mountain Cairne stood tall and proud in the thick of battle with his warriors, despite his hesitance to slay other tauren he battled ferociously and fearlessly. Enraged and furious Magatha tore her hair, whenever her warriors gained a foothold or an advantage over their enemy, there was Cairne to rout them again. The very presence of the great chieftain was enough to push the Grimtotems off of Thunder Bluff. Near insane with rage Magatha ordered the Forsaken to scale the cliffs and kill Cairne Bloodhoof. Attacking him in his home, Cairne slaughtered them all before at last succumbing to the poison on their weapons.

Upon hearing news of Cairne's death, his son Baine rallied the Bloodhoof village and the Red Mesa. The young leader took up his father's mantle and his forces surrounded the Grimtotems' camp. Methodically and without feeling, Baine slaughtered the Grimtotems and buried them where they fell, minus the heads which he placed upon spears in the open air. Refusing to enter what he called 'his father's city' Baine's forces returned to Bloodhoof village while the new young High Chieftain traveled to Orgrimmar. Instead Cairne's second Tagar took control of the capital and pushed the council of elders aside, his warriors meanwhile are preparing the city for the day when Baine will enter and take up his father's runespear.

In Thrall's throne room the leaders of the Horde assembled and in front of them all Baine presented the heads of the Forsaken assassins and demanded the head of the Banshee Queen. Immediately the Forsaken leader defended herself and said she was not responsible for the actions of a few members of her faction, but Baine would hear none of it. With grim determination Baine forced the issue, with Vol'jin rallying to his side while Regent-lord Theron sided with Sylvanas, albeit cautiously. Thrall desperately tried to mediate between the two factions but Sylvanas spat in his face and rescinded the Forsaken's membership in the Horde. Hurt by Thrall's unwillingness to side against his father's killers Baine rescinded the tauren's membership as well. Both sides left Orgrimmar and began to prepare themselves for war.

Meanwhile, Vol'jin watched as the Horde disintegrated and looked to the future. Even with support from the tauren and Forsaken, the trolls' pace at reclaiming their island homes was snaillike, without it Vol'jin feared the trolls would never regain their homeland. Gathering all the shadowhunters and witchdoctors Vol'jin prepared his people. Solemn and full of remorse, Vol'jin left the Horde as well and his people moved in a great exodus to the Echo Isles.

Their allies gone the orcs have pulled back from nearly every outpost throughout Kalimdor. Once the Horde expansion brought fear to the Alliance, but now the orcs have pulled back to their homeland in preparation for the war they know is coming. Even the factions themselves find it hard to remain cohesive; there is a growing rift in blood elf society between their undead sister who fell defending them and the Horde that sheltered them. Too many question the wisdom of their leaders.

***

An equally dark cloud hung over Theramore Isle as the marines and Kor'kron set about rebuilding defenses that had held longer than they should've in the face of such an onslaught. The still-smoldering remains of two Alliance frigates and a battleship drifted lazily on the swelling tide in the harbor, while the threshers feasted upon the dead bodies dragged into the murky water by the weight of their armor.

When the billowing white sails first appeared on the horizon the citizens of Theramore assumed they were merchants ships or resupply vessels. As they entered the harbor, however, their forward cannons began to pound the walls of the citadel. As cannonballs of death hurled through the air, the defenders were left in shock at the sight of Alliance vessels firing at them.

All too quickly, though, the shock wore off and Tidefury Cove soon filled with sounds of cannon fire. Pounding at the isle's defenses, the Alliance vessels took a beating in turn which prevented them from landing on the open beach and taking the city. After two days the Alliance admiral ordered one frigate to push forward and land its troops, all the while the captain of the frigate ordered all cannons to keep firing despite the shrinking distance.

When the frigate, badly beaten and barely afloat, finally beached itself the foot soldiers took to the assault with efficiency that bespoke of veteran fighters. However, the Theramore marines had used the two days wisely and dipped deeply into their stores of goblin mines. Barely a dozen soldiers made it out of the three score that landed; they were shown no mercy at the walls.

After the crushing defeat of the assault frigate, the admiral moved his remaining frigate to the northern side of the isle and the battleship to the southern side, both out of range of the main cannons. The clean, almost pristine, white walls of Theramore soon were scarred and blackened, while the marines desperately tried to hold off the circling ships. For a full day the admiral drew the defenders to the sides, giving them plenty of time to move their main cannons and most of the ammunition, and when once more the Alliance vessels began to encounter resistance he gave the signal to the last frigate.

Moving with speed the marines couldn't counter the frigate headed straight for the beach, now mostly devoid of mines, and beached itself hard into the soft sand. The company made great time up the beach to the walls where they pressed in on the defenders, drawing more and more troops from manning the outer walls. But fate was with the Theramore marines that day as the infiltrators and guards from the towers finally arrived to reinforce them, and dozens of fresh troops joined the fray. Rallying once again to defend their home the marines kept the attackers from moving further than the walls, and as the sun went down the Alliance soldiers began digging trenches along the beach.

That night, as the Alliance ship fired volley after volley at the walls and the soldiers secured their beachhead on the isle's shores, the defenders knew that the next day would be their last. No fortress, no matter how impregnable, could hold forever without reinforcements, and any common soldier could see the admiral was no fool and had probably already captured Northwatch. No more reinforcements were coming. Still the cannonneers fired at the battleship, each cannonball carrying the hope that it would be the one to sink it, and the riflemen still fired at the heads of the soldiers, trying their best to slow the work. All knew at first light the battleship would pull in and begin firing directly into Theramore itself while ferrying its troops, possibly a full regiment, to the trenches before the enemy would launch a full assault on the isle.

As if reassuring the marines of their impending demise was the presence of Archmage Tervosh and Jaina Proudmoore herself. Patrolling up and down the defenders' line the two magic-users prepared plans for defense and counter-attack, still believing there was some hope for victory. Finally dawn broke and all waited with baited breath.

Gently rocking in the swell was the Alliance battleship, aimed and ready for its push into the harbor. At last the sails were unfurled and filled with wind, the admiral gave the command to commence bombardment and soon fodder flew over the heads of the defenders bringing down houses and ramparts. In a desperate maneuver to slow or stop the battleship, the mages released massive cold spells that froze nearly the entire harbor in sheets of ice. Instead, their spells created a walkway for the Alliance soldiers to run across and to the beaches. The mages realized their mistake, releasing the ship meant allowing it to come closer but killing the soldiers crossing the ice bridge.

As more and more soldiers gathered on the beach the Alliance commanders readied them for a charge, and as one they surged up the beach into the defenders' line. They crashed into the marines and began to fight hand-to-hand, the desperate defenders against the overwhelming forces of the Alliance. Surprisingly the line held, the marines holding the soldiers back for the moment, and Lady Proudmoore began to rain fire upon their heads. Had Stormwind the loyalty of the Kirin Tor a few mages may have joined the fray and the tide would've turned inexorably to them, but few could rival the most powerful mage on Azeroth.

Without one of the mages to hurl cold spells the ice began to thin quickly in the hot air, and slowly the battleship pushed through the ice, once again renewing its bombardment. Like a specter of death, slowly inching closer and closer to shore, bringing the rest of its troops, the ship seemed to be marking time until victory.

Yet, still the defenders held, Tervosh hurled spell after spell at the battleship, desperately trying to halt its advance or sink it. Jaina fired fireballs and blizzard spells at the attacking troops, all the while her marines fought their enemy tooth and nail to their last breath. Their hearts sank as the battleship let out a groan like a dying whale as its keel slowed and grinded into the sand, an instance before the long boats were launched and more troops poured from its hull all the while never stopping its constant barrage.

In the still air above the battle, though, a terrifying screech was heard and suddenly a small group of troll batriders appeared in the sky and began to toss burning torches and fire bombs at the defenseless troops in the long boats, sinking many and wounding those who survived. After several seconds the batriders banked over the defenders and began to attack the battleship, aiming their fiery missiles at the exposed ammunition on deck.

Despite these reinforcements, Jaina Proudmoore knew it was only a matter of time: there were enough men on the beach and making it to shore that her forces would easily be overrun. Then, along the sides of the beach, emerged gold-and-black plate armored warriors wielding polished axes. They began to hack apart those troops that survived the trolls' assault before forming up and charging into the back of the troops attacking the marines.

All at once the cannons stopped firing over the defenders' heads, yet the sounds of explosions didn't stop, and nearly all turned to look as small blasts and fires began to emerge from the sides of the battleship. A few lucky trolls had apparently got into the powder kegs' storage and set them off.

With a blood-thirsty cheer that echoed the hopeful cries of their comrades the Kor'kron charged and began to cut down any Alliance troop they could find. The marines hope burning in their hearts, pressed forward and forced their enemies into the waiting axes of the Kor'kron. As the noon-day sun rose high in the sky, it gleamed off the armor of scores of dead soldiers lying still in the sand.

When King Varian Wrynn saw the portal open in his throne room he believed it was a messenger bringing news of victory from Theramore; instead a slight, blonde, human woman and a tall green-skinned orc stepped out. Immediately Varian motioned his guards to attack but Thrall was quicker and as the Warchief's warhammer hit the ground a shockwave sent all the humans onto their backsides. Standing tall and proud in front of her would-be oppressor, Jaina haphazardly tossed the head of the Alliance admiral into the lap of the King of Stormwind. "Consider this," she said in a tone that brokered no argument, "notice of my intention to leave the Alliance." With that the two leaders stepped back into the portal and disappeared from the throne room.

In the following weeks representatives from King Magni Bronzebeard and the Senate delivered strongly worded reprimands to Varian. When the young king's reply was to smack the unoffending diplomat to the ground the following messengers carried orders of cessation of friendship with the human kingdom. That day the Dwarven District was emptied and the Deeprun Tram was shut down, some believed the tunnels were even bricked up. As if fated, Malfurion Stormrage emerged at long last from the Emerald Dream.

Upon seeing the state of affairs of the empire, the Archdruid took control of the druids and proceeded to move them and the priestesses of Elune back to Nighthaven. The Sentinels were split in their loyalty but most followed the High Priestess Tyrande, still others remained to man the outposts of the fading night elven power. Fandral Staghelm, however, refused to go quietly and began a propaganda war against Stormrage and Whisperwind, bringing only the remaining Sentinels and a few druids under his control. In his arrogance and rage, Staghelm proceeded to chase the tauren druids out of the Cenarion Circle lessening his forces even more. The tauren, under the leadership now of Hamuul Runetotem, began to pull back from Valor's Rest and Cenarion Hold, causing the few remaining forces to abandon them and return to Ashenvale. The night elven touch, felt lightly across most of Kalimdor, has all but gone now, only a few outposts are manned and fewer still as strong as they once were.

***

The wilds are now treacherous to walk, the frontiers have been abandoned, and all hope seems drained from the world as places like Southshore or Darkshire are left to fend for themselves. The only place the Horde and Alliance seem to exist now are in memory and Northrend, where they selflessly continue to defend Azeroth from the undead Scourge.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter II

By Hikako

The Undercity: Two days after Cairne Bloodhoof's death.

In aggravation Sylvanas, Banshee Queen on the Forsaken, nearly shot an arrow through the skull of the Warchief's emissary as he declared that her presence was demanded in Orgrimmar before the week was out. Thrall had grown too proud if he thought he could demand anything of the Dark Lady herself! Still, Sylvanas stayed her hand and spat out an affirmation before the orc hastily left her throne room. She could feel wave after wave of mindless rage assault her mind and will, yet she buried it under the surface in reserve for when she would need it. In her darkest heart of hearts though the Banshee Queen ached with the urge to dig her bony fingers into the soft flesh around the messenger's throat and watch the torrent of warm lifeblood flow from his neck, reveling in the sight of the color drain from his skin and emotion empty from his eyes on the tiled floor beneath her feet.

It took all of Sylvanas' control not to destroy something, nearly six years since the Forsaken had won their freedom from both the Scourge and the Burning Legion's lackeys and it galled her to follow another's orders. Even if they did come from the Warchief of the Horde. Since her un-birth Sylvanas noticed her temper was getting shorter, mostly from the pent-up hostility towards the Lich King, she knew it would go away after his long, slow, and agonizing death at her hands.

_There is trouble on the horizon, My Lady. _

The inner-voice of Varimathras spoke inside of Sylvanas' mind, his body trapped in a cell under the throne room floor in a magically-induced atrophy. After Sylvanas reclaimed her city, and propped Putress' head in front of the Royal Apothecary's headquarters, she imprisoned the dreadlord fully intent on letting him wither and die. Soon afterwards Sylvanas found she missed Varimathras' advice, which was always pragmatic and sound, and her magic-users crafted powerful spells that allowed telepathic communication between the two. While his body was unable to move, he saw through Sylvanas' eyes, heard through her ears, and spoke only inside of her head. Sylvanas lost a powerful bodyguard but kept her effective majordomo.

Few of her followers knew of Varimathras' presence, and none outside of the Forsaken had an inkling of what happened to the dreadlord. Sylvanas knew that if Thrall or the other rulers found out they would demand his head, but the Banshee Queen was not stupid and she was too proud to let others dictate her actions. Varimathras, when he wasn't plotting her downfall, had been an efficient administrator and pragmatic adviser; everything he did was done to make the Forsaken a true force to be reckoned with. Despite the fact that he was only doing it for the day he would depose Sylvanas and rule the undead, the Dark Lady saw no reason not to let him continue to serve her and the Forsaken as long as his chain was considerable shorter and held tightly in her grip.

_You focused on the message and not the messenger. There was hostility there._

There is always hostility; Sylvanas thought to herself and Varimathras, few in the Horde ever truly trusted the Forsaken and after what happened at the Wrath Gate there were now even less. Her people had so many enemies, paladins and crusaders notwithstanding, it often felt as if the whole world was ready to turn on them. If it wasn't the Scourge or the Legion then it was the fence-sitting druids, the weary witch-doctors, or the o-so-in-touch-with-Nature tauren; not to mention the Alliance and all its members bayed for blood every day. Unlike the Blood Knights under Liadrin, the true paladins saw the Forsaken as unredeemable undead tainted with evil and their cursed holy powers were a thorn in Sylvanas' side. Yet, even now Liadrin and her Knights seemed to turn from the Forsaken and begin seeking help from 'The Light.' The list of allies the Forsaken had in the world was growing thinner by the day, even Lor'themar was becoming iffy about the closeness of Silvermoon and the Undercity. Sylvanas didn't know what it was, but she had a feeling it had something to do with the events on the Sunwell Plateau. Her spies, however, couldn't find anything useful, the Blood Elves were playing this close to their chest and the mood between the Banshee Queen and the Regent was becoming chilly to say the least.

_This wasn't unease, this bubbled beneath the surface, like a personal insult._

This is understandable given my final words to him. Despite the advantages it was easier when Varimathras was in the room before and she could make him shut up. The dreadlord was sometimes like a dog chewing on a bone, wouldn't let the matter drop ever. Still, Sylvanas couldn't shake the feeling that there was something there, something she didn't pay attention too at the time. Leaving her throne room with a flair of her cape Sylvanas walked the halls towards her private chambers. Unlike when she was mortal the Dark Lady didn't need to sleep but sometimes she needed to escape the stench of other undead and enjoy some privacy.

What if something was going on in the Horde plans to get rid of the Forsaken or expel them from the Horde? These and even more disturbing thoughts clouded her mind as she moved swiftly through the macabre halls of the Undercity. Sylvanas hated admitting it to herself but they needed the Horde, without their support Forsaken holdings would dwindle back to the Undercity and the immediate area. The Banshee Queen's hold on Lordaeron would weaken and break, maybe even disappear all together and then Kel'Thuzad would advance from the Plaguelands. The Alliance might be a bigger threat to the Scourge than the mere Forsaken but Kel'Thuzad would revel in the glory of presenting Sylvanas' head to the Lich King. Sylvanas would rather relive her un-birth a thousand times than be a trophy for Arthas. She felt the rage begin to build inside of her once more.

Finally Sylvanas arrived at her chambers, which were quite unlike any other room in the Undercity, and a small piece of her mortal life left for the middle Windrunner sister to enjoy. Dark and dreary gothic design was replaced with bright and elegant lines, like her room in the Windrunners' home in Silvermoon the walls were white marble and curved upwards to make a dome above her head. Yellow and red gold lined the walls and furniture, while handcrafted bookcases along the walls were filled with books on every subject. The Dark Lady felt Varimathras' revulsion at her décor and he pulled his mind from hers into the recesses of his own. Completely alone now, Sylvanas undid the buckles that held her light armor to her body and carelessly dropped it on a chair as she moved gracefully and silently across the room to the bookcase next to the light producing crystals. Unlike the current Silvermoon there were no green crystals or anything resembling fel magic here, this was a moment frozen in time during the glory days of Quel'thalas, and Sylvanas enjoyed all her time here. Here she was finally at peace in her undead life.

But it was not to be; all too soon the Banshee Queen had to return to her rotting kingdom, to once again take up the mantle of master and savior of the Forsaken. Yet for just a moment, here in this place, she was Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon, once again.

***

Silvermoon, Sunfury Spire: One day before the meeting in Orgrimmar

Lor'themar Theron's right eye scanned the gathering in front of him, the patriarchs or matrons of every surviving noble house was there in the meeting hall of Sunfury Spire. Each was as petty and ruthless as the next, but each did what they thought was right for the future of the Sin'dorei. Just a few moments ago a unanimous vote was cast to separate forever from Kael'thas and the House of Sunstrider. Following that referendum was the vote to reinstitute the Convocation of Silvermoon as the rulers of Quel'thalas.

The nobles began to slowly and solemnly file out of the chamber, leaving the newly elected Convocation to its work. None of them knew what abandoning the Sunstriders meant for their people, their race, or even Silvermoon itself, but that mantle had passed from them to the six elves that stayed behind. Each noble knew, however, that enormous changes were coming to their world once again.

Lor'themar stood in the center of the chamber and looked at each member of the Convocation as they stared back at him awaiting the start of the new era. Underneath Lor'themar's cool exterior a sea of doubt and worry seethed, he had never expected such events like the past few months to ever happen nor did he expect to be the source of hope for a new way for the High Elves now the Blood Elves.

Whatever else was decided, Lor'themar vowed to himself, that moniker was going. His people couldn't shackle themselves to grief and anger anymore, they had to let go of the past and move on. Hate, anger, and fury only brought more destruction down on those who followed that path, the forest trolls were prime examples of that. So dedicated to retaking so-called sacred lands and vowing blood feuds against both High Elf and human the trolls fought to the bitter end, and it was very bitter. Now his people hurtled towards a similar end, and it was up to the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and those assembled before him to set a new course.

The first, and oldest, member of the Convocation was the universally revered priestess Marfa Dawnwatcher. Bent with age, Marfa was still striking with piercing gray eyes that seemed to see into Lor'themar's own soul and her soft and wrinkled face was framed with silver-white hair. In her uncountable years the Dawnwatcher matron had seen the reign of Arathor fall, spoken to refugees from Azeroth as they arrived in Lordaeron, fought alongside the Alliance in the Second War, and survived the destruction of Silvermoon and the razing of Quel'thalas.

Standing behind the priestess was a elven man of short stature and almost frail form, yet none who saw the powerful mage wield spells in battle could ever deny his power. His pale blonde hair was short-cropped and his icy blue eyes stared at Lor'themar, Alanassor Skytreader was similar in his veracity and stubbornness to Kael'thas Sunstrider. Yet underneath his arrogance and overconfidence was a deep well of common sense that the prince sorely lacked.

Off to the side of the priestess and mage, trying to blend into what little shadow there was in the room and obviously uncomfortable in the open air, was the leader of Silvermoon's spies and one of the most skilled rogues on Azeroth: Anariel Windspeaker. Of the five that Anariel was the only one that Lor'themar had a history with, she had served under him in the defense of Silvermoon was the Dark Prince Arthas razed in to the ground. Anariel had done her best to report the undead's movements but even she didn't realize Arthas' sheer numbers as several columns advanced on the High Elven city. Since that day Anariel had lead the guerrilla forces in the Ghostlands barring reentry to all. Lor'themar knew Anariel wouldn't like it but she would be the public face for the rogues who watched from the shadows.

Lady Liadrin, leader of the Blood Knights, stood to Lor'themar's right. Tall and proud like an oak tree Lor'themar doubted she was anything else than the holy warrior whose legend grew daily in Quel'thalas. What few facts had been discovered about Prince Kael'thas and the events on the Sunwell Plateau only enhanced her legend, and Lor'themar knew she would do the right thing no matter what.

On Liadrin's right was a youth, seemingly too young to be a capable commander and a patriarch of a noble house in his own right, Athaniar Lightseeker towered over the other elves. Nearly a full head taller than any other elf, Athaniar seemed to be a pale-skinned Night Elf, more at home in the wilds fighting and hunting than in his fine livery at the top of Sunfury Spire. His was the only unit to survive intact from Arthas' invasion.

"The first order of business High Convocate," the soft but firm voice of Marfa Dawnwatcher said, "is to decide upon you successor for Ranger-General."

High Convocate, a title Lor'themar never thought he would hold nor was he entirely sure that he was worthy. Marfa was right, however, a new commander of the Ranger Corps. needed to be selected. Lor'themar straighted and looked at the frail priestess.

"Agreed." He said as authoritatively as he could without sounding arrogant, "Any suggestions, good priestess?" Truthfully he didn't even need her to answer the question, the one who should lead the Corps. was in the very room. Marfa gave Lor'themar a small smile with her thin lips and cleared her throat before saying, "I believe Athaniar would be a good replacement."

Athaniar, for all his youth, kept his surprise off his face relatively well, he didn't even stutter when he spoke up. "Surely High Convocate, Priestess Dawnwatcher, someone more experienced and capable can be found!"

"Nonsense, boy!" Alanassor said, and Lor'themar held back a laugh at Alanassor's obliviousness to his and Athaniar's similar age. "You are intelligent and capable strategist, and you are already loved by the warriors under your command. A more fitting Ranger-General there hasn't been since the days of Windrunner!"

"And a more fitting transition to other business than that there hasn't been." Anariel spoke up, her unease at politics not showing for a moment, "It also begs the question about our allies and others we have been associated with." Though noone said anything the same thought ran through everyone's minds: _Sylvanas the Banshee Queen_.

"We are entering a new era," Lor'themar said keeping his eye scanning the others' faces. "Yet we cannot truly begin until we shed the trappings of the past." Tension gripped the room, each knew what might be coming next, and each was aware of the consequences of it. "As we all know," Lor'themar continued, "the past isn't something we can simply shake off like a stray pet. It can even give us a clue to a better direction."

The members of the Convocate gave Theron their full attention, though spoken diplomatically it was clear Theron had a plan for disposing of the Forsaken and Horde and joining the Alliance.

"To put it simply my friends," the High Convocate went on, "consider the Ghostlands and our staging area of Tranquilien. While communications with us are infrequent at best, the Banshee Queen seems to maintain a strong link to the town. If we attacked it or turned against our Forsaken allies we would lose our one and only beachhead in the Ghostlands."

Theron paused to let this information be mulled over, he knew it would take some hand-holding to lead this group down the path he needed them to take.

"Consider, as well, the abandoned villages that lie just south of the border and could be turned into strongholds easily. Not only those, but the small camps of Night elven spies stationed inside of the Ghostlands. As well as Shalandis Isle, a sea port connected to Darnassus."

Understanding seeped into the faces of the Convocate as Lor'themar tentatively explained his plan. "In the coming weeks, I propose we distance ourselves from the Forsaken, and by extension the Horde. We all know that Tyrande and Staghelm don't trust us, for our magic as well as Prince Kael'thas, but don't forget that Tyrande helped the prince before he consorted with demons."

"If we enlist aid from her," The High Convocate continued, not noticing his voice getting lower and the others gathering closer to him, "we can push the undead back and use our magic to reseal the Outer Elfgate."

The other members began to become ill at ease with this plan, and Lor'themar knew what was running through their minds. "It took the full might of the Scourge, with Arthas at its head to smash through it the first time, and we will reinforce it with divine magic from the blood knights. With Night elven druids, also, we can renew the Eversong Forest to it former glory!"

The Convocate, without knowing it, had begun to slightly nod their heads in agreement, they could see the value in this plan despite the massive risks involved with seperating themselves from the only allies they had left.

"The undead will not see it coming, they are still reeling from Dar'Khan's death." Marfa agreed.

"It's aggressive," Alanassor said barely containing his excitement, "but if it works…"

"We will regain our homeland, free of bargains struck with primitive orcs and demonic creatures." Athaniar said, giving his consent.

"Once again Quel'thalas will be in the hands of the Quel'dorei." Anariel said, her emotionless façade falling away.

"No." Liadrin said, in a voice that brokered no argument.

It was if the time had stopped in the room, none dare move their head it be taken as a sign of support for either side. The members of the Convocate could almost feel the tension that suddenly gripped the air, if Liadrin and her knights didn't join the others they didn't stand a chance. Moreover, if Liadrin and her knights turned against the others the civil war would end Silvermoon forever.

It was like the whole of existence stood upon the edge of a blade, threatening war and chaos with the slightest movement. The elves stood still as statues, barely breathing, and no one made the slightest sound. The cool hand of death crept up their spines once more, gripping them in the fear they felt as Silvermoon burned to the ground. Finally, Liadrin spoke up, her voice breaking across the silence like a stone through glass.

"The arcane powers of the Quel'dorei are gone," the leader of the blood knights said, "the unceasing rage and hate of the Sin'dorei is passing. We must fight for a different kind of people, a different kind of Quel'thalas, and a new world. No longer will the past have a hold on us, no longer seeking to restore faded glory and feed an addiction of our own making."

A strange feeling began to grow in the Convocate, something none of them understood but all felt compelled to obey.

Lor'themar was the first to speak, "No longer High elves, no longer Blood elves, we are a new people. Devoted to bringing Light and Order to our land, people of the light, Ala'dorei."

"Now," Liadrin said, "we can take back our homes."

AN: Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review and add criticisms or complaints.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter III

By Hikako

Bloodhoof Village, two weeks after Council of Orgrimmar

Baine, Chieftain of the Bloodhoof tauren, sat cross-legged in the center of his lodge and inhaled a deep breath. Situated in the middle of Bloodhoof Village, the small unassuming place had become the center of activity for Mulgore as warriors moved to and from with their marching orders. Like a well-oiled gnome mechanism the tauren had swiftly flown across the lands of Kalimdor to return to Mulgore, and from there once more out to secure their borders. Tauren land was clearly marked in the minds of Kalimdor, Mulgore obviously but from the Barrens between Taurajo and the Great Lift, and the western part of the Thousand Needles and all the land between Mojache and the abandoned Thalanaar. Seeing masses of angry tauren had caused the dwarves to dig deeper into Bael Modan and shut the doors firmly behind themselves.

Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, the new Chieftain set about to returning to his meditation. The wind came from the west today, unusual for that time of year, it was dry but it carried the smells of wild grasses and game frolicking upon the plains. The northern Barrens were at peace now almost completely devoid of activity; when barely a ten-day past the Crossroads buzzed with activity and caravans loaded with goods and traders walked the ancient road winding to and fro across the plains. The south was tauren and hourly patrols kicked up dust into the air, makeshift base camps similar to the camps of old dotted the landscape, and a palpable tension hung in the air. Every tauren readied himself for battle.

Many years had passed since the days when the tauren walked the plains, free and without worrying about the future like children playing in the open air. When survival did not come from alliances and bonds with others but the speed of a hunter's spear or the strength in a warrior's arm. In those days the tauren were masters of their own destinies, deciding where and when they moved, heeding no call from any master they didn't choose to follow. Baine wouldn't lie to himself; it had hurt at the meeting when after demanding Sylvanas' head Thrall interceded. Didn't he understand? Did he lose himself for a moment? Cairne was dead, dropped by poison created in the Undercity itself and all Thrall did was try to keep the peace. There couldn't be peace, not as long as Forsaken walked freely in the world, if Thrall's blood still heard the call of battle maybe he would've sided with Baine. They were well rid of him, Baine thought, the tauren were strong before the Horde and they would be strong after with a true warrior leading them not some bleeding heart Warchief. Strong like when Cairne led the tauren on the wide open lands of the Barrens.

Baine remembered his first hunt at the tender age of five seasons, breathing the cool air of early morning and running through the long grass with his father at his side. Cairne wasn't the great chieftain then, a renowned warrior, or savior of the tauren he was simply 'Tawa' who was taking his eager boy on his first hunt.

"Always remember Chi-lo," Cairne had said calling Baine by child-name, "Remember to give thanks to the Earth Mother after every hunt." Cairne had slowed his pace to a slight jog as he schooled his son. "For when we die our bodies feed the ground and make the sweet grasses grow, and our prey eats the grass. Together we feed and sustain each other, as children of the Earth Mother should."

The pain of the memory struck Baine in his heart, his father at peace and happy, so unlike how he had been in recent years. His shoulders slumped with the weight of the world, his brow furrowed with worries, yet still believing the world was good and fair to people, never suspecting he would be betrayed or forced to kill his own people. Baine knew killing the Grimtotems caused Cairne old heart to break a little, he lived for the tauren and always did what he thought was best and he was cut down by those who wanted power. What was power worth if good and wise men had to die to get it!

Baine let out his breath in disgust, his anger flooded his mind and he tensed his whole body in order to prevent himself from doing something terrible. His father had been wrong, the Earth Mother didn't care for the tauren, the spirits were wisps of air and smoke, and the tenets Cairne had lived his life by were as worthless as air they were spoken into! Memories played in Baine's mind: sitting around the great bonfires and listening intently as Cairne recounted stories of the great valor and honor of past warriors; teaching the children the values of the tribe and reminding the older members of lessons learned long ago. United in peace by the bonds of blood, a great family of strangers, with each pulling their weight and the weight of those who couldn't pull anymore, and respecting their elders while loving their children: that was what the tauren were missing now.

It was what Baine was going to give back to them, as soon as every member of the Forsaken was ground to dust under the hooves of the tauren. Not just the Forsaken, but the Grimtotems too! As soon as they crushed the undead invasion that was sure to come they would track down the last Grimtotems and make sure all remembered what a tauren blood feud was like.

Baine's hunters reported that after the massacre at Thunder Bluff the Grimtotems in Dustwallow abandoned their camps and took up residence in Bloodfen Burrow, pushing the raptors out of their home. Yet the Grimtotems, despite their numbers, couldn't still their warlike nature and soon they had picked a fight with Onyxia's brood of black dragons. Forced by superior power to hunker down in the Burrow, they were just waiting to be finished off as they held off the blacks' siege. The remainder of all the Grimtotems in the rest of Kalimdor had fled north, quickly moving through the passes in Stonetalon, to the land of Desolace. There, without support from Theramore, the Grimtotems had taken Nijel's Point, but like their cousins in Dustwallow, they were embroiled in a war with the satyr of Sargeron.

Baine finally abandoned his efforts to re-center himself through meditation and answered the itching in his hands as he took up his weapons again. Finally he walked out of his lodge into the activity of pre-war preparations.

***

Theramore Isle, one week after the assault and one day before the Horde Council

The sun beat down on the destroyed beaches and scarred walls of Theramore Isle as it climbed its familiar pathway across the sky. It was nearly highsun and the heat mixed with the humidity added to the work the humans and orcs were doing nearly made it unbearable. Orc peons and human peasants carried heavy loads of lumber and building supplies back and forth from the supply ships the Warchief had sent from Durotar, while even Theramore marines and Kor'kron elites shed their armor and lowered themselves to menial labor.

Despite owing their survival to the orcish forces, many marines and guards weren't completely comfortable around them, preferring to keep their distance when possible. The orcs, for all intents and purposes, seemed to feel similar; there was far too much bloodshed between the veterans and far too much paranoia and suspicions between the younger troops to feel completely at ease. Yet as the days had drug on, a mild tension set in that kept everyone on their toes but avoided making feuds out of misunderstandings. Most of the Kor'krons had returned to Orgrimmar to take up their posts again so the two standing forces were even and if battle was joined they would kill of each other.

Helping to keep the peace, as they had done for many years since the Battle of Mount Hyjal, were Lady Jaina Proudmoore and Warchief Thrall. Two days after the assault a small supply ship arrived carrying much needed cargo and the Warchief himself. Met on the docks by Jaina, dressed oddly in grays and blacks, a burden seemed to fall from the both of them as though their deep friendship was almost physical. Though he had been in Theramore for the assault, something was stirring in the Horde and he had to return to Orgrimmar. Seemingly able to sense when his human friend needed help he appeared almost miraculously on the ship.

The whole week, actually, had been full of surprises. A few days after the attack ended the deserters, disheartened to see Stormwind's disregard of human life, began to show up in droves from deep in the marshes. They had hoped Stormwind would replace Jaina Proudmoore, instead they watched as the human kingdom sought to completely erase Theramore Isle from existence. Nothing was said to the former deserters when they arrived, nor when armor and weapons were dispensed to them, but each would have to deal with the fact that while his home and family were being assaulted he hid in the mud and behind leaves. Their own shame was punishment enough, as long as they didn't grumble about Proudmoore anymore.

"So you're letting them back in." Thrall rumbled in his deep voice to his friend, Lady Jaina Proudmoore. They had been shut in her study for hours poring over maps and talking politics, tired of it all Thrall took a small break and stood by the window watching the sky. His attention had been caught by the squealing of the gates as the guards let in another dozen or so deserters.

Jaina, who had been standing by her desk frowning at a detailed map of southern Kalimdor, turned and walked over to the window just as the gates swung closed on their noisy hinges. Casting a glance down below Jaina gave a slight nod before saying, "Why not? We need the muscle and most seem to be heartfelt about their return. They know what Stormwind will do to them now, where else will they go?"

Thrall was slightly startled, though he didn't show it, by the cold and ruthless tone the sorceress had taken. That along with other subtle changes marked a new Jaina Proudmoore, one Thrall wasn't sure he liked. Yet, the Warchief couldn't deny that Jaina was a product of events and the most recent had shaken her to her very core. Despite the fighting going on, in Kalimdor and in Lordaeron, Jaina always believed she could the bridge leading to peace between the Alliance and the Horde. Now, after Varian Wrynn showed his true colors, she had found herself at the mercy of the wind with only her duties and responsibilities to her people grounding her at all. She had always been a capable leader, but now her mercy was tempered with pragmatism instead of youthful hope, while not necessarily a bad change Thrall still found himself missing his old friend.

Thrall suddenly caught sight of one of Theramore's banners, flying high in the wind, and considered the anchor symbol upon it. True, Kul Tiras' symbol was the anchor and Jaina didn't feel like changing it, but more than that Thrall believed that Jaina thought she was the anchor for the Alliance, the point that they would always stay linked to. The idea that peace and cooperation between the two sides could prevail over anything. As the Guardian Medivh whispered to Thrall in his dreams: _To show the world it no longer needed Guardians_.

All business the Lady Sorceress of Theramore turned from the window and returned to her spot at her desk. Brusquely she said, "It's clear something will need to be done about the Grimtotems." The hard edge to her voice left no mystery to what 'something' was. "They have moved out of Grimtotem Village and Dire Horn and are heading south. Let us hope they aren't stupid enough to join with the Black Dragonflight."

Standing there, in her grey and black vestments, Thrall couldn't help but noticed how aged she appeared compared to her eternal youth she seemed to have before. Sighing slightly Thrall joined her next to the desk.

"Agreed," the Warchief said, trying to muffle his thundering steps, "I will send word Tharg in Brakenwall Village to send out scouting parties." On the desk was a very detailed, and mostly accurate, map of Dustwallow from the mountain borders to Tidefury Cove. On the map Theramore was marked with a white miniature that was similar to a rook in chess while Brakenwall was marked with a piece of red wax with the Horde symbol on it; Grimtotem camps were marked with bulls' heads made of black rock.

"So," Jaina began with no small hint of apathy in her tone, "they finally got around to picking a new chief! We thought Mor'Morokk had enough support to start a civil war." Again Thrall barely hid his surprise; usually stability for anyone was high on Jaina's priorities. "That's good; Dustwallow is too small to host an Ogre War. But back to the Grimtotems."

"If they do join with Onyxia's brood we may be in for another fight or a quick evacuation to Northwatch." Jaina said, the Alliance admiral had indeed tied up Northwatch Hold's forces, but the single ship he sent was routed eventually with minimal loss. "It seems as if no matter where we go or what we do monsters either chase us off or someone tries to take away what is ours." The bitterness in Jaina's voice seemed to drip from every word. An invasion by an Alliance admiral brought back a lot of uncomfortable memories for the pair, neither really willing to talk about them they looked for anything they could talk about. "I will probably need to call Tabetha here; we can't have a lone sorceress and a few apprentices deep in semi-hostile territory. If no union is made then I see no reason she can't stay, I may have need of an outpost in that area."

"Sound strategy." The Warchief said, though he realized she was talking more to herself than him, "I'm sure I can convince Tharg to give some warriors up to help protect her. His warriors and her mages might have a shot at retaking Stonemaul together."

"Whether the ogres regain their namesake village is not my main concern," Jaina sniped, almost viciously putting down the idea of cooperation. "Defending what few people I have left from any more Alliance soldiers or monsters waiting in the shadows is!"

Thrall took a step back, aghast at the sheer venom in her voice, never had he heard Jaina speak that way not even about demons or the Lich King. Not only that but the look on her face, shifty eyes and jittery movements, like the shadows in her very room could be spies for her enemies scared the Warchief.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, Jaina never taking her eyes off the maps in front of her and Thrall never taking his eyes off Jaina. He knew that kind of rage, he had often seen it in the eyes of Sylvanas Windrunner, the rage of one who feels as though the entire world is closing in about her. Not knowing any way to help his friend Thrall cleared his throat and said, "Maybe it's best if I retire for today."

As he made his way towards the door Thrall felt a chill go up his spine as Jaina's voice drifted to him from across the room. "Maybe it would be best if you returned to Orgrimmar, I hear Baine Bloodhoof has called a council of the racial leaders." How she knew about it, when Thrall himself wasn't informed until this morning, was chilling enough but the tone of her voice was clear to the Warchief. A dismissal of him, like a runaway husband or degenerate sibling, along with what he felt was a clear denouncement of the Horde. He could practically hear her thoughts: primitive, bloodthirsty, monsters. Words Thrall never thought Jaina would use to describe his people or himself, but there they were buried thinly under her tone.

As Thrall walked down to the docks, preparing to board the ship that would take him home, he couldn't shake the feeling that the old Jaina was gone and this new Jaina might turn into an enemy. With all they shared Thrall wasn't sure he could face Jaina, even one as cruel or maniacal as Sylvanas was, on the battlefield.

AN: Thank you to all who reviewed, again I reiterate that any criticism is welcome along with personal opinions about characters and the lore direction. I am not versed well in WoW lore so you'll have to bear with me if I mess up.

The next chapter will take a few weeks; I have work and other responsibilities. Also the next chapter is probably going to feature the Orgrimmar Council and it will need to be precisely written and plotted out. Politics being the sport of long-winded old men and all. Please be patient and remember to review what's already up. Thank you, Hikako.


	5. Chapter 5

Blizzard has announced a new expansion, a complete overhaul of many zones and race-class combinations, and therefore I have placed this story on suspension until the release of the new expansion. Mostly due to unknown changes and subtle differences coming I want to craft a story that meshes well with WoW and the new expansion makes most of what I will write moot. I may upload a new chapter here and there, but don't commit it to memory as I will probably overhaul it all in the coming years.

-Hikako


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